


The Work of the Devil

by blod1tatws



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blogging, Gen, Holiday Case, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:34:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blod1tatws/pseuds/blod1tatws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John go away to Cornwall for a break. Of course, things never go to plan. </p>
<p>Modern reworking of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's 'The Adventure of the Devil's Foot'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the characters, the plot, or anything really. But enjoy anyway :)

The Blog of Doctor John Watson

Ever since I started blogging about the interesting cases that Sherlock and I (I include myself loosely here) have solved, I have faced many difficulties. Mostly from Sherlock himself. If he’s not attacking the way I write them, he’s banning me from writing some of the cases altogether! 

He has this huge aversion to publicity; surprising since he usually loves attention. To his cynical nature, any public recognition annoys him. Nothing “amuses” him more at the end of a successful (but challenging) case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile when all the praise goes to those in Scotland Yard.

It’s this kind of attitude that makes it difficult for me to blog, not because of a lack of interesting material. People might get bored of me writing about Sherlock’s daily routines. For one, he doesn’t have a routine (I really wish he had-waking up at all hours of the night really affects my work). My participation in his cases has actually been a privilege, though I won’t say that to his face. He can read it like everyone else, makes it less embarrassing. 

So it was a surprise when Sherlock looked up from his laptop last Tuesday and said:

“Why not write up the ‘Cornish horror’? That was…unusual.”

That case was nearly a year ago now and I had no idea why he remembered it now; he usually deletes things. The hardest part was the fact I couldn’t remember it at first! But I have found that writing notes during and after a case comes in handy every now and again. So before he could change his mind, I went in search of the notes. Then I could truly tell the story.  
….

It was in the middle of spring nearly a year ago that Sherlock’s strong will (in other words, stubbornness) showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work, aggravated perhaps by his weird habits. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar of Harley Street, whose case was so big that the world’s “only” consulting detective lay aside his other cases and surrender himself to complete rest, in order to avoid a mental breakdown. He doesn’t really care for his health that much, but after being threatened by Lestrade that he would have no cases for at least a year, Sherlock agreed to go away for a while with me.

So that’s how we found ourselves in a small cottage near Poldhu Bay, the furthest extremity of the Cornish Peninsula.

It was a place that bizarrely suited Sherlock’s grim humour. From the windows of the little white washed house, which stood high upon a grassy headland, we looked down upon the whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay, with its fringe of black cliffs and surge-swept reefs.

On the land, our surroundings were as sombre as the sea. It was a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-coloured, with an occasional church tower to mark the site of some old-world village, it was a world away compared to London, and I liked it. The glamour and mystery of the place appealed to Sherlock’s imagination, and he spent a lot of his time taking long walks across the moor. 

He had received a volume of books on philology and was settling down to develop his thesis when suddenly, to his abject delight (and my disappointment), we found ourselves plunged into a problem which was more intense, more engrossing and way more mysterious than we’d ever had in London.

Before this case came to us, while we were there everything was peaceful and simple, a healthy routine violently interrupted. I thought Sherlock was enjoying himself, even though there wasn’t much to do. I love being involved in cases and running around London, but I was enjoying just relaxing for once (God, I’m getting old). And then we were in the midst of a series of events which not only gripped Cornwall, but throughout the whole west of England. (And yet, it was never on the news or in the newspapers. I suspect Mycroft had something to do with that.) 

Now I will give the true details of this weird affair to the public.

I said…Oh great. Another case. He asks me to write up an interesting case then he tries to push me out of the chair to hurry. I’ll finish later.  
…………………………….

COMMENTS

Ooh, romantic getaway, John. Hope you won’t go in to too much details :p  
Harry

So that’s where you went off to during Sherlock’s “issues”? I thought that older brother had something to do with it, you know, being in the government and all.  
Lestrade

Oh Doctor Watson, don’t let this be a weird holiday blog about the freak. I might just vomit hearing you both loved up.  
Sally Donovan

John, sounds delightful! Pray, do tell us all. I, especially, am dying to know.  
Anonymous

John, mate. Still up for that pint?  
Bill Murray

So glad to hear (well watch) you’re doing a whole new case, John! I’ve been involved in a few, you know, with the morgue work. Something new!  
Molly Hooper

For the last time, Sherlock and I are not together! And no it wasn’t a “romantic getaway”, Harry. Bloody hell, it was just a holiday. Lestrade, Sherlock wants you to phone him.  
John Watson

Don’t be shy, Doctor Watson ;) Let the whole world know about Sherlock’s heart.  
Anonymous

You know, you don’t need to be “anonymous”. We all know who you are, JIM!  
John Watson.

Lestrade, ignore John. You know to text rather than phone.  
And John, how many times do I have to tell you not to be dramatic? What are you doing-advertising Cornwall? Hope you’re on commission. Please write about the actual case next time. Oh, and we’re out of milk.  
Sherlock Holmes

Shut up. And I would have gotten to the case bit had you not dragged me out in the cold!  
Oh, and get the milk yourself. SEMI-SKIMMED! Not soya, like last time.  
John Watson

Ooh, I do love looking at you having a domestic ;)  
Anonymous

Shut up.  
John Watson

Shut up.  
Sherlock Holmes

…….


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Something extraordinary and tragic happened last night, I’ve heard nothing like it before. It’s so lucky that you’re here at this time, for you’re the only one I can think of that can help!”

The Blog of Doctor John Watson

Back again. Turns out that case was a bit bigger than we first thought, I’ll put it in my blog another time. If Sherlock lets me, of course.

Anyway, I have said that there were scattered towers marking the villages that dotted this part of Cornwall. The nearest of these was the hamlet of Tredannick Wollas, where a couple of hundred cottages and buildings clustered round an ancient, moss-grown church. It almost looked like something from the 19th century, had it not been for the electricity poles and cars weaving through the streets. 

The vicar of the parish, Mr Roundhay, was something of an archaeologist, and because of this, Sherlock wanted to meet him. (He still won’t tell me why we went to meet him, research maybe?) He was a middle-aged, portly and affable man. At his invitation, we had tea at the vicarage (do people do this in small villages? Can’t imagine people doing that in London, somehow), and that’s where we met Mr Mark Tregennis, a single man who lived in the house with Mr Roundhay in order to help his finances (Something which weirdly reminded me of Sherlock and I’s situation, although neither of us is religious. Obviously). The vicar, also a bachelor, was happy having an extra income by having Tregennis pay rent, although he had little in common with the man. Mark Tregennis was a thin, dark, spectacled man who had a hunched figure. The vicar was open and talkative and very interested in what Sherlock did, but Tregennis was sad-faced and introspective, brooding on his own affairs.

These were the men who entered abruptly into our holiday cottage on the Tuesday, March 16th in the middle of our late breakfast (It was nearly lunch time). I was so surprised by them just entering without knocking that I dropped my piece of toast on the floor; jam side down.

“Mr Holmes!” said Mr Roundhay in an agitated voice. “Something extraordinary and tragic happened last night, I’ve heard nothing like it before. It’s so lucky that you’re here at this time, for you’re the only one I can think of that can help!”

I wasn’t happy being interrupted during breakfast, so I was glaring a bit at the vicar (well, I like my breakfast); Sherlock on the other hand sat up straighter in his chair, set his phone down and put his hands together, prayer-like (Fitting, in the company of a vicar now I think about it). The vicar and Tregennis sat down by the table with us, both looking disturbed.

“Do you want to tell them, or shall I?” Tregennis asked.

“Well, considering you discovered it first-whatever is it, Mr Tregennis, perhaps you should tell us,” Sherlock said. 

I glanced quickly at Roundhay and Tregennis, and nearly smiled at the surprise on their face at Sherlock’s almost simple deduction. 

“Maybe I should tell you,” said Roundhay, “as Mark is obviously distressed, or maybe we should hurry to the scene of this affair right now.” Sherlock said nothing. “I should tell you that Mark spent last night in the company of his siblings, Owen, George and Brenda, at their parents’ house ‘Tredannick Wartha’, which is near the old stone cross on the moor. He left them just after ten o’clock, playing cards round the dining-room table. This morning, he remembered he forgot his mobile in the house so he went for a walk before breakfast. On the way, a few police cars passed him and several ambulances. He also noticed the local doctor in his car about to pass him and then stopped. Dr Richards looked at him sadly and explained he had just been called to Tredannick Wartha and offered Mark a lift. When they arrived, they made their way through all the police officers and ambulance people and straight to the dining room. Some police officer had tried to stop them because of it being a crime scene, but Dr Richards told them he was their doctor and that Mark was their brother. When they entered the dining room, this scene lay before them: his siblings were still seated in the exact spot which he left them in, the cards spread across the table. Brenda lay back stone-dead in her chair, while Owen and George sat either side of her laughing, shouting and singing, the senses stricken clean out of them. All three of them retained the expression of horror on their faces. There was no sign of the house staff-it’s a big house, you know and they were quite rich-but the housekeeper and cook, Mrs Porter. She said that she slept deeply and heard no sound during the night. Nothing had been stolen or rearranged, and absolutely no explanation as to how three people died in horror. I have told you all that I know, Mr Holmes, and would be eternally grateful if you could help us discover what happened.”

My idea of a relaxing holiday flew out the window; one look at Sherlock’s intense face and contracted eyebrows told me that. He sat for a few minutes in silence, absorbed in the strange drama which interrupted our peace.

“I will be willing to look into this case,” he said at last. “On the face of it, it appears to be a case of a very exceptional nature. Have you been to the scene yourself, Mr Roundhay?”

“No, Mr Holmes. I’ve only recounted faithfully what Mark told me once he came home. I thought of you first and that meeting we had a few days ago where you said you deal with interesting cases.”

“How far is the house from here?”

“About a mile away.”

“Then can you drive us there in a few minutes? I just have a few questions for Mr Tregennis first.”

Mark Tregennis had been silent all this time. He sat with a pale, drawn face, his anxious gaze fixed on Sherlock, and his thin hands clasped convulsively together. His pale lips quivered as he listened to Roundhay relaying the events, and his dark eyes seemed to reflect something of the horror of the scene.

“You can ask what you want, Mr Holmes,” he said eagerly. “It’s hard to convey everything properly, but I’ll try my best.”

“Just tell me about last night.”

“Well, I went to have dinner with my family, and my eldest brother George suggested we play a bit of poker. We sat down by the table about nine o’clock. It was quarter past ten when I decided to leave. I left them all still playing the game.”

“Did you just leave, or did your housekeeper let you out?”

“She had already gone to bed; she isn’t as young as she used to be, so I let myself out. I shut the hall door behind me. The window of the room we were in was tightly closed, and there’s no way a burglar can try and open it from outside. But the blind was not drawn yet when I left; there was no change or mark of forced entry on the door or window this morning, and nothing was moved so I don’t think a stranger had been in the house. Yet there they sat; Brenda lying dead in fright, my brothers in terror, and their heads hanging over the arms of the chairs. I’ll never get the sight of that room out of my mind for as long as I live.”

“I take it that you have no theory yourself which can in any way indicate what happened?” Sherlock’s hands again came together in a prayer.

“This is not natural!” cried Tregennis. “It’s like something supernatural!”

“It couldn’t have been a gas leak?” I thought I’d try and help a little.

“No, there was no smell or anything this morning, and Mrs Porter said the same.”

“If it is “supernatural”, Mr Tregennis, it could be beyond my capabilities.” A small pause in the room followed this. “But I will ask; why were you living with Mr Roundhay instead of in the family house with your siblings?” I hadn’t thought of this.

“When our parents died, they left us a decent amount of money. Let’s just say there was a lot of debate at who should get what, as there was claims that some of us did more for our parents before their death than anyone else did. But it was all forgiven and forgotten, and I like living with Charles.”

“Looking back at the evening, does anything stand out in your memory that could help with the inquiry? Think carefully, Mr Tregennis, for any clue which can help me.”  
“Nothing at all, Holmes,” he said, looking distressed.

“Were they in a happy mood? Were they nervous people? Did they show any sign of coming danger? Think! There must be something!” I wanted to tell him to tone it down, but it would have no effect whatsoever.

“Yes, they were fine! And they were never nervous; absolutely no sign that they knew what was coming.”

“You have nothing to add then, which could assist me.” Tregennis pondered this earnestly for a moment.

“There was…something,” he said at last. “As we sat at the table my back was to the window, and George sat facing me. I saw him once look hard over my shoulder, so I turned to look as well. I could just make out the bushes on the lawn, and it seemed to me for a moment that I saw something moving there. I couldn’t say if it was animal or human, but I just thought there was something there. When I asked George what he was looking at, he told me he had the same feeling. That’s all I can say.”

“Did you not go out and investigate? And are there any lights outside?”

“No, we forgot about it afterwards. There are no streetlights, as the house is in the middle of the countryside, and the garden lights were not switched on, I recall.”

“So you heard nothing about what happened before the doctor stopped in his car to tell you, as you were walking to the house?”

“As Charles said, I forgot my phone in the house and as I like to walk early in the mornings I decided to walk there instead of driving. Dr Richards told me Mrs Porter had called the police and the ambulances, and then she called me. I quickly got into the car and we went in the room. We had been playing by candlelight, to create an “atmosphere” and they were completely burned out, the room was almost dark. The doctor said Brenda must have been dead at least 6 hours. There were no signs of violence; they were just there. The doctor was clearly distressed, he turned completely pale.”

“Brilliant!” said Sherlock, and going to fetch his coat. “I think we should now go down to Tredannick Wartha immediately. This could be my most challenging case yet!” 

He nearly skipped out as the three of us got ourselves ready to go. We didn’t…

Not again. I told him to get the milk! He did, and it’s Soya! And bloody goats’ milk! I swear he does these things to annoy me. I spat tea out because it was bloody soya, and it’s over my laptop. If this breaks I’ll-  
…………………………..  
COMMENTS

Ooh, what will you do to him Johnny Boy?? I’m soo looking forward!   
Anonymous

What is with you and milk? It’s just milk!  
Harry

You were actually annoyed that a case disturbed your “romantic getaway”? It must be love. Freaks.  
Anderson

Yeah, spoiled your plans John? Freaks.  
Sally Donovan  
Donovan, Anderson. My office, now!  
Lestrade

Seriously, are you his parrot Sally? You’re both like a stuck record.   
John

Not a bad account, John. I can’t understand why some people focus on specific things, like “annoyed at the case disturbing romantic getaway.” Don’t they see the facts about this case?! The complexity! I hate everyone. Except you of course, John.  
Sherlock Holmes

Complimenting me now, are we? Saying nice things will not make me forget the “milk incident”. Buying the right milk though might makes things better.  
John Watson

No.  
Sherlock Holmes

Such a child.  
John Watson

Um, sorry to interrupt. But can you come in for a shift please, John? Sonia phoned in ill.  
Sarah Sawyer

No.  
Sherlock Holmes

Ignore him, Sarah. I’m on my way.  
John Watson

What about the blogging, John? You can’t stop there!  
Sherlock Holmes

It’s my blog, and I’ll finish it later.  
John Watson

Disobeying your master- naughty.  
Anonymous

Shut up.  
John Watson

Shut up.  
Sherlock Holmes


	3. Chapter 3

The Blog of Dr John Watson  
I had to start writing this in the cold and flu season, didn’t I? Work has been incredibly hectic, and half the doctors working at the surgery are also ill! Sherlock was not happy that I wasn’t in the flat constantly to boost his ego, make him coffee, make him food when he actually ate, pass him his phone, pass him a pe-. You know what, it’s not important. This is not a place to put down his flaws, it could take days. On with the case.

We didn’t find much that first morning, however it did leave a very sinister impression in my mind. The approach to the place at which the tragedy occurred was down a narrow, winding country lane. While we made our way along it, an ambulance came towards us and we had to go aside to let it pass. As it passed, Mark remarked;

“They’re taking my siblings!” cried Tregennis, his lips white. “They are taking them to Helston.”

Roundhay then drove us to the house. It was a large and bright building, rather a villa than a cottage with a decent garden which was already filled with spring flowers. There was a window in the house that faced this garden, and Tregennis remarked that anyone in the garden could look inside; that window was in the room where the Tregennis siblings were killed.

Sherlock walked slowly and thoughtfully through the garden and along the path before we entered the porch. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he stumbled over a watering-can, which tipped over and deluged both our feet and the garden path. I remember that bit more for the fact it was Sherlock who tripped. It’s very unusual for him to trip or stumble; he’s usually so graceful (it was almost funny, had it not been for the circumstances). 

Inside the house we were met by Mrs Porter and another young girl who looked after the house. She readily answered all of Sherlock’s questions; she didn’t hear anything in the night, the family had been happy and healthy, and she didn’t see anything. She had fainted in horror when she entered the room in the morning, and seeing the bodies. When she had recovered, she opened the window to have some air in the room and went to phone the doctor. 

They had only taken the brothers to Helston; Brenda was on a bed upstairs if we wanted to see her (someone had told them we were on our way there, and let us inspect her. Kind of them. If breaking the regulations a bit). It took the paramedics half an hour just to get one brother on a stretcher, a little less for the other but there was something odd in this. The housekeeper had decided to leave the house the next day to re-join her family in St. Ives. 

We walked up the stairs and viewed the body. Miss Brenda Tregennis had been a very beautiful woman, verging on middle-age. Her dark, clear-cut face was striking, even in death, but there lingered a sense of horror there. From her bedroom we went down to dining-room where it all happened. 

The charred ashes of the overnight fire lay in the grate. On the table were the four guttered and burned-out candles (for “atmosphere” Tregennis said), and the playing cards scattered over its surface. The chairs had been moved back against the walls, but everything else was exactly where it had been the night before. This didn’t stop Sherlock from grumbling:

“Ugh, moving the chairs. Even Anderson wouldn’t do that.”

He then paced with light, swift steps about the room; he sat in the various chairs, moving them and reconstructing their positions. He kept looking out the window, examining the floor, the ceiling, the fireplace; but not once did I see that brightness in his eyes and the small smile at the corner of his lips which would usually tell me he had some sense of what happened. 

“Why was there a fire?” he asked and broke the silence. “Did they always have a fire in the room in the middle of spring?”

Tregennis explained that the night was cold and damp, and after he arrived the fire was lit. 

“What are you going to do now, Mr Holmes?” 

Sherlock walked up to me and laid a hand on my arm. 

“John, you know I wouldn’t ask this for no reason. But can you...you know, give me some?” 

And before Anderson or Donovan can pipe up here, he was asking for a cigarette. 

“John and I will return to the cottage, I’ve seen enough. I will think about what I’ve seen, Mr Tregennis, and I will get back to you as soon as I can. Come along, John.”

We walked back to Poldhu cottage in complete silence, and only when we entered the cottage did he speak. He looked perplexed; his brow furrowed, his forehead contracted and his eyes vacant and far away. 

“Will you get that cigarette now, John?” I pretended like I didn’t hear him. “Please.” He always said that in a tone of voice which was almost impossible not to say no to. Almost. He got tired of pleading with me and sprang up from the chair he had been lounging on.

“Ah! I can’t think! Let’s go out for a walk; maybe the air will give me inspiration.”

Um, I have to stop here I’m afraid. Apparently, my writing isn’t good enough for the next part. Sherlock will do that himself, he says. When he stops hanging out the window that is. Fine, that’s fine with me. Let’s see if he can do any better.  
……………………………….  
COMMENTS

Sherlock is going to be writing on your blog? That will be interesting to see.  
Mike Stamford

John, do you have to keep re-starting and stopping this story? I want to know!  
Harry Watson

Don’t know if this is news to you, Harry, but I do have a life you know. It keeps getting in the way.  
John Watson

And I haven’t? Yeah, thanks. You’re such an annoying *word hidden*.  
Harry Watson 

I’ve told you before, stop swearing!  
John Watson

When you’ve stopped having sibling “banter”, John, I would like to write my post. If you wouldn’t mind.  
Sherlock Holmes

Write it on your own laptop! The laptop which you’re using right now to post comments. The laptop right in front of you. Do you see it?  
John Watson

Yes, very funny. I much prefer your laptop to write these things, anyway. Now give it to me!  
Sherlock Holmes

Don’t look like that at me!...Fine, take it. But don’t click on any inappropriate websites again!  
John Watson

I did it twice John. One by mistake and the other for an experiment. Now be quiet.  
Sherlock Holmes

Yeah, “experiment”.  
John Watson

Look at you two, like an old married couple. Awww.  
Anonymous

And yes, I’ll “shut up”. For now.  
Anonymous


	4. Chapter 4

The blog of Dr John Watson

Finally, John has deigned to give me his laptop. He childishly tried to hide it from me, several times, but of course he did not do a very good job. I humoured him for a while; it’s fun to let him think he’s beaten me. Unfortunately John then gets angry and refuses to make coffee, definitely “not good.” Now that I have got his laptop, I will pick up where he left off. 

I will recall my discussion with John after we had gone for a walk and returned to Poldhu Cottage. 

“John, we need to think of our position. This case is frustrating; the little we do know leads to nothing so far! Oh, such an excellent, infuriating case. Three people have been struck by some conscious or unconscious being. I won’t rule out anything here, John. Now, when did this occur? Evidently, assuming his narrative to be true, it was immediately after Tregennis had left the room. Remember that point, John. The presumption is that it happened a few minutes afterwards. The cards still lay on the table. It was past their usual bed time. They had not changed their position or pushed back their chairs. So it must have been no later than eleven ‘clock. 

Our next obvious step is to check, so far as we can, the movements of Tregennis after he left the room. It was fairly obvious judging by the somewhat clumsy water-pot experiment, I obtained a clearer footprint than might have otherwise been possible. The wet, sandy path showed his footprints brilliantly. The night was also wet, and it wasn’t particularly difficult to obtain a sample print to pick out his track among others and to follow his movements. He clearly went to the direction of the vicarage.

If, then, Tregennis disappeared from the scene, and some outside figure affected the rest of the family, how can we reconstruct that figure, and how did the figure convey such horror? Mrs Porter can be deleted from this process, she is evidently harmless. There must be evidence that someone crept up to the garden window and produced something that scared the victims to death. The only possible solution in this direction is Mark Tregennis himself, who said that he and George felt a presence in the garden. But without any lights, they couldn’t see anything properly. Who doesn’t have lights in the garden when you’re living in the countryside?! Anything can creep up. The night was rainy, cloudy and dark. Any idiot would have taken their chance on such a night. But why these three people? Was Mark supposed to be there? Was this just a random murder? Ah, my brain is itching with irritation! Why won’t it just think?! There is a three-foot flower border outside the window, but no indication of a foot or any other body indent. This case is difficult, there’s no point in waiting for your ‘insightful’ deductions.”

“Yeah, thanks Sherlock. Does insulting me give you some sort of thrill?” He grabbed a newspaper that was nearby, a clear sign he was frustrated because he wanted to do something with his hands. I wasn’t even being insulting; I was just stating the truth. Ordinary people are so sensitive.

“We can’t do much for now, so just read your paper in annoyed silence, John. I will go back to some experiments.” He sniffed in response, and started reading. I have no idea what his problem with my experiments is, they are always useful. Almost always useful, might be better. He seems preoccupied with my safety although I’ve never blown anything up accidently. They’ve always been on purpose. And-

Okay, that’s enough of that. It’s John here, by the way. I wrestled Sherlock away and told him to go play with his experiments. He’s gone off to sulk instead; such a child. I’ll carry on where he left off.

There was a knock on the door about five minutes after we had stopped (well, just Sherlock) talking. I went to open the door and standing there was someone unexpected and surprising. The huge figure, the craggy and deeply seamed face with the fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair which nearly brushed the ceiling of the cottage (note: dear god, John. Is this even necessary?) the beard; all these were as well known in the world press from London to Africa. It was Dr Leon Sterndale, the great nature explorer. You know, he's always on those nature programmes.

We had heard a rumour when we arrived here that Dr Sterndale was in the area, and had once or twice caught sight of his tall figure roaming around the countryside. We hadn’t approached him, or he us, as it is known that he prefers seclusion. And I don't think Sherlock particularly cared. It was a surprise to see him on the doorstep, not only because he was a celebrity of some sort, but his seclusion meant he had very little attention for the affairs of his neighbours. The first thing he did was ask if we had made any advances in the case. 

“The police are useless,” he continued, “but I was wondering if you had made any progress or found some explanation. Of course I know who the famous Sherlock Holmes is, and when I hear you were in the area a few hours ago, I knew you had to be involved in this. I know the Tregennis family well, and this has come as a massive shock. Any help you need, Mr Holmes-and Dr Watson of course, I love your blog-you can call on me.”

Sherlock did nothing but raise his eyebrows.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on your way back to Africa? Your flight left one hour and 16 minutes ago.”

“How-? I won’t ask, I know your methods, of course. I will return to Africa once this case has been dealt with, I can’t leave now.”

“Your friendship with the Tregennis family must have been a close one,” I remarked.

“Well, yes of sort. I came straight from the airport when I heard of this.”

“It’s just happened. It’s not in the newspapers or on the news yet. How did you hear of it?”

“Someone phoned me, Dr Watson.” A shadow passed over the gaunt face of the explorer.

“From whom?” Sherlock came over to the door-Sterndale had refused my offer to come in-and looked at the Doctor intently.

“You’re very inquisitive, Mr Holmes.”

“Well, that is my job.” 

Sterndale recovered his composure and said, “I have no problem in telling you that it was Roundhay, the vicar who Mark Tregennis lives with.”

“Thank you, Dr Sterndale,” Sherlock replied, “that wasn’t so hard was it? In answer to your previous question on the goings on of the case, I must reply in the negative. For now.” 

“Have you got any hints though?”

“Telling you that would take the joy out of reading John’s blog later. You said you enjoyed reading it.”

“Then I have wasted my time in coming here,” and he strode off with a bad attitude. I went back to my chair puzzled at what just happened. Five minutes later, Sherlock announced he was going out. I didn’t see him until the evening, looking excited and wild. He was looking at his phone, probably reading a text.

“I just made some inquiries, John. No signal in here, so I walked around trying to find one. This place is utterly useless. Anyway, Sterndale had checked his bags in the airport and had gone through checks. Then he gets a text, leaves his bags and lets them go to Africa without him and returns here. What do you make of that, John?”

“He’s very interested in weird deaths?”

“Very interested, yes. There’s something here that I can’t see, and which will lead us through this mess. I will solve this! More material will come to light soon, and we’ll be done.”

Little did I know how soon Sherlock’s words would be realized, or how strange and sinister would the new development which opened up an entirely fresh line of investigation…  
Oh, now this is just beyond irritating. What the hell is all this smoke?? When I get my hands on him…  
………………………………  
COMMENTS

You were right John; he can be an annoying git.  
Harry Watson

Thank you for your input, Harriet. Let me assure you I don’t care.  
Sherlock Holmes

*Comment removed*  
Harry Watson

Sherlock, she’s my sister. So just ignore her. And Harry, this will (hopefully) be the last time I tell you. Language!  
John Watson

Omg, I love this!  
Miranda Wethers

“Omg”?! What even is that? John, your blog is being read by utter morons.  
Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock, clean up the mess you made in the kitchen. Now.  
John Watson

I never thought I’d see the day where Freak would be told what to do. Well done, Doctor.  
Sally Donovan

Oh, as you like me being authoritive, then you’ll like this. Stop calling him ‘freak’ or I will personally tell Lestrade about some of your after-work activities with a certain forensic idiot.  
John Watson

Down boy, down!  
Anonymous


	5. Chapter 5

The blog of Dr John Watson

3 days! That’s how long it took the “world’s only consulting detective” to clean up the kitchen. I could have done it in about a day, but that was his punishment for purposefully making his experiment explode. That’s how annoyed he was at me having kicked him off the laptop in the last entry. I swear he is such a child sometimes. Now, where was I? 

The next morning, I was shaving in the bathroom when I heard a car coming up the small road which led to the cottage. When I looked through the window, it stopped and Roundhay quickly came out of the car and rushed up the garden path. He was so agitated, he didn’t knock on the door but barged in to the cottage. I came out of the bathroom to hear what he had to say; Sherlock seemed completely unruffled by Roundhay’s appearance. 

“Mr Holmes! There’s something tragic going on in my parish, truly tragic!” he cried. “It’s like the Devil has taken over it!” He danced about in his agitation with startled eyes and ashy face. After much pacing-and various faces pulled by Sherlock-he told us the tragic news.

“Mark Tregennis…Mark is dead! He died during the night, with exactly the same symptoms as the rest of his family.” He started to cry. Sherlock jumped to his feet. 

“Mr Roundhay, have you phoned the police?”

“Yes. They, and the ambulance service are on their way. But I couldn’t stay in that house with Mark’s…body, I had to come find you. There’s no phone for this cottage, I could have called you sooner.”

“Excellent. Let’s go to the vicarage before they arrive and ruin the scene.” There was a sort of manic excitement in his eyes; it’s annoying really because he shouldn’t be so excited about a death. But he’s Sherlock, I wouldn’t really expect less. 

The vicarage was small, with only 5 rooms in total-Lounge, kitchen, bathroom and 2 bedrooms. The lounge looked upon the croquet lawn which came up to the windows. Everything was left undisturbed in the house and lawn. It was a misty March morning, knowing that there was a dead body in the house was eerie.

The atmosphere of the lounge was of a horrible and depressing stuffiness. Thank god the window was open, or it would have been even more intolerable. This might have been partly due to the fact that an old-fashioned lamp stood flaring and smoking in the centre of the table. The lamp must have been a part of the church, it looked so old. Tregennis was seated by the table, leaning back in the chair, his thin beard projecting, his spectacles pushed up on to his forehead, and his face turned towards the window and twisted into the same distortion of terror which had marked the features of his siblings. His limbs were convulsed and his fingers contorted. Looking into his bedroom proved that it had been slept in that night, and that the incident had occurred early that morning. 

Had Roundhay not been so traumatised, he would have noticed Sherlock’s, ahem, subtle ecstatic energy from a mile away. The moment he stepped into the room he was tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his limbs quivering with eager activity (yeah, you can stop laughing behind me Sherlock, that is how you are at crime scenes). He was out on the lawn, round the room and round the bedroom in minutes. In Tregennis’ bedroom, he threw open the window, which excited him more for some reason, for he leaned out and actually squealed. Squealing! I wished I’d recorded it, really. He then rushed down the stairs (again), went outside and crouched right down on the lawn, sprang up and came back in again, all in seconds. It was like he was on dr-um, anyway…

He examined the old-fashioned lamp with minute care, carefully scrutinized with his lens some ash that lay of the fireplace and then putting some into an evidence bag he had in his pocket. The police and a doctor finally appeared half an hour after we had, when Sherlock motioned for Roundhay and I to step out onto the lawn with him. 

“Finally, I have something to think about! This investigation can actually go somewhere today. I cannot remain to discuss the matter with the police, it would be pointless to argue with their stupidity, but I should be exceedingly obliged to you Mr Roundhay if you’d tell the inspector to direct his attention to the bedroom window and to the lamp in the lounge. If they half-looked into the evidence they could come up with a result, and then they can come and talk to me. Off we go, John.”

It may be that the police resented the intrusion of an “amateur”, or that they imagined themselves to be upon some hopeful line of investigation but we didn’t hear a thing from the inspector for the next two days. 

During this time, Sherlock spent hours either sitting on the sofa with his hands beneath his chin or playing his violin, and only doing one experiment. He occasionally went out for walks, always going alone and not a word as to where he had been. He did come back to the cottage one day with a duplicate of the lamp we had seen in Roundhay’s house. I think he stole it from the church, but he won’t tell me where he got it. I think he feels a bit guilty about taking it from a church, as I’m almost certain he took it back. He had also got hold of the oil used in the lamp (again, probably from the church, the church was so old it had to have kept this stuff). 

Sherlock said that afternoon: “You will remember, John, that there is a single common point in the varying reports we have received. This concerns the effect of the atmosphere of the room in each case upon those who had first entered it. 

"If you remember, Tregennis remarked that the doctor who examined his siblings went pale, and that Mrs Porter fainted in “horror” when she went in the room, and then had to open the window. When we went into the vicarage, there was a stuffy feeling in the lounge but it would have been worse had not the window been open. What do you think this suggests? A poisonous atmosphere; the oil in the lamp, and there was a fire in the Tregennis house. There must be a connection between three things-the burning, the stuffy atmosphere, and finally, the death of the victims. We’ll accept this as a working hypothesis. 

"Let’s assume that something was burned in each case which produced an atmosphere with strange toxic effects. The window was shut in the Tregennis house. The window was shut which meant except for the chimney, the toxic air couldn’t go anywhere. I suppose you saw me take some ash from the fireplace from the vicarage? It wasn’t normal ash, but I had to check the fireplace for some signs in comparison with the first case. The ashes could be remains of the substance or poison which was used. There was also some brownish powder mixed in with the ash, so I took it to examine it. I wish I could have taken more though, but I didn’t want to spoil the policemen’s fun by taking all their evidence. I don’t want Lestrade to hear how I’ve been “tampering” with evidence again.”

Here was the point where Sherlock suggested his experiment. He was going to light the lamp, but still open the window, to see what effect it had on us. I was going to argue how ridiculous this sounded, but he kept going on and on about how brave I was and how the John he knew would take part; being really condescending. Sherlock turned the chairs towards each other so “we could see what happened to the other, and to stop the experiment if it went too far.” 

I had hardly settled in my chair before I was conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and nauseous. It felt like there was a thick, black cloud in front of my eyes, and I started thinking of horrible things in my past-the army, the deaths and so on. I felt really cold, it felt like my hair was standing up, that my eyes were popping out, my tongue felt dry. I could only croak, and I don’t know how I managed it, but I focused (vaguely) on Sherlock. His face was white, rigid and horrified; it was seeing him that made me focus instantly and re-gather my strength. I dizzily got up from my chair, grabbed Sherlock’s shirt and dragged him out of the chair and outside the cottage. We both collapsed on the grass, side by side, just panting. We turned to look at each other, still feeling clammy, and asking if the other was okay. 

“That was a stupid experiment, Sherlock.”

“I wouldn’t say stupid. Bit moronic maybe. You know, um, I appreciate you dragging me out. Wise thing to do, um, it was good…yeah. Sorry.”

“Yeah, well. Anything ‘moronic’ you do, I’m always there to help in the end. And to say I told you so. Anyway, people already think you’re mad, this wouldn’t have made a difference.” He playfully hit my arm. He got up a bit unsteadily, walked back into the cottage and came back out again holding the lamp and then throwing it as far as he could; we could the glass break. 

“Don’t go back in there right now.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“This case is so confusing, yet an utter joy to be involved in, John. All the evidence I can think of points the blame at Mark Tregennis for the first crime, though he was the victim in the second one. Do you remember Mark saying that there had been a family feud recently, but they had reconciled somewhat? It wasn’t a great reconciliation, or Mark would have moved back into the family home. He said that there was something, or someone moving about in the garden which took our attention for a moment from the real cause of the tragedy. He deliberately misled us. He said that they used candles to create an atmosphere, and there was a fire burning. Those were his suggestions. He left before anything really happened.”

“Was his death a suicide then?”

“Not unlikely, his ordinary feelings of guilt might have drove him to it. However, there are cogent reasons against this idea. We’re lucky to have a man here in Cornwall who knows all about these reasons, and hopefully he’ll be here soon.” We heard a rustling noise, and our guest arrived. 

“Bit early, but there you are.”

He walked towards us, and started to speak-

DUE TO SOME UNFORTUNATE EVENTS, THIS POST WILL BE STOPPED HERE FOR A MOMENT. IT IS OF NATIONAL IMPORTANCE.  
….  
COMMENTS

National importance? What the f-?!  
Harry Watson

Bloody Mycroft!  
John Watson

My sentiments exactly, John.   
Sherlock Holmes

Why did he do this? Oh wait, you’re ignoring a case he’s got aren’t you? You are such a petulant child.  
John Watson

Freak. Ruining it for the rest of us.   
Sally Donovan

You ruin a good case for the rest of us with your childish insults and complete inability to actually understand what’s going on. Instead of wasting your-and my-time with your moronic existence, why not give Anderson a call and leave us all to do your work for you since you’ve proved you can’t do it yourself ? That’s the national importance, Sally.   
Sherlock Holmes

Miaow.  
Anonymous

I would tell you off, Sherlock, but I’m getting tired of her calling you names. What is she, twelve?  
John Watson

Don’t upset my staff, Sherlock. Or at least do it when she’s not on shift. She’s so angry, she keeps ranting about you in my office. It’s completely distracting me from my afternoon coffee and doughnut.  
Greg Lestrade

Case. Now, Sherlock.  
MH


	6. Chapter 6

The blog of Dr John Watson

You’d think two grown men would be able to act maturely and behave with dignity. Not the Holmes brothers. I swear they have a mental age of five when it comes to interacting with each other. They’re both so childish (yes, even you Mycroft.) Anyway, where was I?

The man walked up to us and started to speak.

“Well, you contacted me and asked for me to come here, Mr Holmes. God knows why I’m obeying your orders.”

“I’m more than happy to clear that point up for you, Dr Sterndale,” Sherlock said. Sterndale took out a cigar from a tin which was in his back pocket and lit it, before gazing sternly at Sherlock.

“I don’t have a clue why you want to talk to me; I heard the great Sherlock Holmes wasn’t very friendly with other people. What do you want?”

“You. And your involvement in Mark Tregennis’ death.” 

At that point, I actually wished I had a gun with me because Sterndale’s face showed such anger and hatred for Sherlock, I was sure he was going to attack him. He had even taken a step forward and clenched his fist, but caught himself before doing anything. 

“I would stop right there If I were you, Holmes. I don’t want to hurt you too badly.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Hasn’t it entered that brain of yours that I called you here, and not sent for the police?” I must say, Sherlock exuded such a strong sense of authority and power, Sterndale visibly wilted under it.

“Why haven’t you called them?” He finally asked. “If this is some sort of mind game you’re playing, you’ve picked the wrong man to mess with. Tell me what you mean, now.”

“When you’ll stop with the empty threats, which are frankly a bit ambitious of you, I will explain. My not calling the police is dependent on what you’ll say next.”

“What I’ll say? Say about what?” 

“The death of Tregennis.”

Sterndale was starting to sweat profusely. “They say you’re a genius, I reckon it’s just guessing.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes before saying: “This isn’t a game of Cluedo, Sterndale. I never guess. And I’m always right.” I felt the need to silently add “almost” to that last sentence. Sherlock carried on, not before sending a “Don’t ruin the moment”-look. 

“It doesn’t take a ‘genius’ to see something suspicious in your behaviour. Coming back from the airport, but letting your things go on to Africa? Those were just two factors against you.”

“I came back-“

“Yes, yes, you’ve told me once before. You said it was your ‘friendship’ with the Tregennis family that brought you back. Sentiment,” Sherlock said distastefully. “You came over to ask me how I was getting along with the case, and I refused to answer you properly. You then went to the vicarage, waited outside it for some time, and finally returned to your hotel.”

“How do you know that?”

“I followed you.”

“I didn’t see you.”

I was lost. “Wait, you followed him after he came round here? How come I didn’t notice?”

“You were absorbed in a book. The Hobbit, John, really? Can’t you do better than that? Anyway, Sterndale. You spent a restless night at your cottage, too busy plotting, which early in the morning you proceeded to put into action. The first thing you did was stuff your pocket with gravel.”

Sterndale gave a violent start and looked at Sherlock with amazement. 

“You then walked swiftly for the mile which separated you from the vicarage. You wearing the same shows as you’re wearing now, tennis shoes. At the vicarage you passed through the orchard and the side hedge, coming out under Tregennis’ window. Dawn was just breaking. You took out the gravel from your pocket and threw it at the window.” 

Sterndale sprang to his feet.

“Where the hell do you get this?! You’re a stalker,” he cried. 

Sherlock smiled and carried on. “It took two, or possible three, handfuls before Tregennis came to the window. He was obviously startled, having a man like you underneath his window; and you call me a stalker! You went into the house, and to the lounge; you talked together for a short while, with you walking up and down the room. You said your goodbyes, and left, and you waited outside. You looked at your watch to make sure Tregennis would be dead, and you left. So, why did you do it? And don’t try and lie to me, or I will get the police. Believe me, my questions are much less mundane.”

Sterndale’s face had turned ash grey as he listened to Sherlock talking. He shuffled his feet for a while before taking his mobile phone out his pocket, scrolling through it and handing it to Sherlock.

“That is why I did it.”

I came close to Sherlock to see what it was, and saw a picture of Brenda Tregennis. 

“Yes, Brenda,” Sterndale said. “I have loved her for years, and I know she loved me as well. I wanted to marry her, but my wife refuses to divorce me. Brenda waited for years, somewhat content to be a mistress. I couldn’t let people know about her of course, or my television career would be over. Roundhay knew about us, and he was the one who informed me of her death. My things had already gone through the airport, I wasn’t going to waste any time trying to get them back, and I needed to come here. So I let them go to Africa. There you have it, Holmes, my motive.” Sterndale fumbled in his pockets and brought a small packet. He then turned to me.

“Do you know what this is, Doctor Watson?” I looked at the label, but didn’t recognise it. I shook my head. 

“I was in North-East Africa filming and came across the Ababda tribe. They had a collection of powders and herbs that were healing ones, but also poisonous ones. You could barely tell the difference between one powder and the next! I asked if I could take some to experiment on, which they agreed eventually, giving me a few. One of the tribe elders explained to us what most of them did. It was difficult trying to get them through Customs, but the television company sorted it out.” He opened the sachet a bit, and turned it upside down so the powder trickled down like snow onto the ground. It was a red-brown colour. Sterndale continued.

“The Tregennis brothers did know about my relationship with Brenda, and we were on friendly terms. I knew there was some trouble with money between the siblings, especially with Mark, but I was sure they made up. Mark was the only brother I wasn’t keen on. He was sly and scheming, but I never really had an issue with him. 

“A couple of weeks ago, he came down to my cottage after I came back from Africa, and I showed him some of the stuff I brought back. I showed him the powder, how if you burn it it stimulates the part of the brain which controls fear and it can cause madness and even death. I then had to leave the room to take a phone-call, and he soon left. I realised some of the powder had gone missing when I got back, and as I was trying to figure out what I did with it I remembered how Mark asked a lot of questions about the powder and its effects, how it was used and so on. But I never thought he would use it for any particular reason, I thought he was just being curious.

“It wasn’t until I heard about Brenda and her brothers that it hit me that Mark used it against them. I was on my way to the airport, and I’m sure he was betting that I’d be too far away when the news would come to me. The police seemed to find no cause, and I knew then that the powder was at fault. I came round to see you, as you remember, just to know what you’d found out; you gave me nothing to go on. I was convinced Mark was the cause of their deaths; he wanted the family money, and if his siblings were declared insane, he would be the sole guardian of all their properties. He killed my beloved Brenda just for money! But what was I to do about it?

“I had no actual proof it was him. The powder wasn’t recognised in this country. But I didn’t believe that the law would deal with him properly. It was up to me what his punishment should be. He killed the one I love; the law meant nothing to me then, and nor does it now.

“You have already mentioned some of the things involved in my revenge on Mark. I set off early from the cottage, I gathered some gravel-phoning him would leave records for someone to connect me with his death-and threw it at his window. After I was let into the house, I told him I knew what he had done; he denied it for ages before admitting it, he was always weak. Although my knife probably had something to do with that. There was an open fireplace, and I let the damned powder I brought with me burn in the fire. I told him if he dared moved out of the room, I would stab him. He was paralysed. He knew he’d either be killed, or have to reveal to Roundhay what he had done to his siblings in order to explain why I was outside with a knife. I stayed around to make sure the bastard died.

“Now, you can do what you like with me, Holmes. Call the police, have me arrested; I don’t care. I did what was right; no one has ever loved a woman as much as I loved Brenda.”  
Sherlock hadn’t moved an inch during Sterndale’s explanation, and only smiled to himself as if to confirm what he already knew. I was shocked, yet I felt sympathetic towards Sterndale having lost the love of his life because of a leech like Mark Tregennis. (I know it’s bad to speak ill of the dead, but I thought he was a good man, and to do what he did…)

“What were you next plans, before I asked you to come here to explain your actions?” asked Sherlock.

“Go to Africa quietly. I have some work to finish, and I can go and clear my head away from all this tragedy.”

“Then go.”

Sterndale wasn’t the only one to look aghast at Sherlock. Just let him go? 

“I…what do you mean?” Sherlock just raised his eyebrows, until Sterndale got the message. He awkwardly stuck his hand out to Sherlock, who shook it, and just walked away.

“If I loved someone as much as Sterndale loved Brenda, I would have done the same thing,” Sherlock noted. “I would kill someone if they murdered you, John.”

“What, really?”

“Of course. Then I’d take the killer’s brain and experiment to see if murder is a psychological thing.”

“So you would kill my murderer just to look at his brain?”

“I bet it would be fascinating.”

“I’m sure you and the brain would be very happy together.”

Anyway, that’s that. It was a brilliant case, and it was nice that no one tried to kill us for a change (I’ll ignore the whole business with Sherlock nearly gassing us to death). The reason why this is coming out now is that Sterndale will never be prosecuted. As those who have seen or read the news recently will be aware, he sadly passed away while he was in Africa. While I don’t want to ruin his good name, I’m letting the world know what a distraught man did after the loss of the woman he loved.  
……………………………  
COMMENTS

You let a murderer go?! Sherlock, John. I’m going to be having words with you.  
Lestrade

What a strange, but ultimately kind thing to do, you two.  
Mike Stamford

It’s not that big of a deal, Lestrade. It wasn’t even your division involved.  
Sherlock Holmes

Perverting the course of justice, freak. I thought you’d know that.  
Sally Donovan

And you and Anderson being sexually active in the Scotland Yard offices, a restaurant’s toilets, an alley beside a crime scene, isn’t that public indecency? Tut, tut.  
Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock! I don’t think any of us wanted to know that. I now have to look at them knowing what and where they did these things. I’m still having a word with you about this whole business.  
Lestrade

Blame John for putting it on his blog! Stupid idea.  
Sherlock Holmes

Look at the first entry of this blog, Sherlock. It was your idea. Numpty.  
John Watson

Shut up.  
Sherlock Holmes

Numpty, how cute.  
Anonymous

SHUT UP!  
John Watson

Alright, alright. I get the message.  
Anonymous

Thank you. Anthea.  
Sherlock Holmes


End file.
